


Pull

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:48:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24173863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Mairon manipulates the new ringbearer’s dreams.
Relationships: Frodo Baggins/Sam Gamgee
Comments: 10
Kudos: 61





	Pull

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Lord of the Rings, The Silmarillion, or any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Halfling minds are _weak_ compared to that of elves, weaker still to Maiar, to _what Mairon’s become._ In this new form, he’s trapped, his energy drained and dissipated, but he still holds more power than any living thing in Middle Earth. He reaches across the broad expanse of land not in the physical world where he’s been banished, but in a different realm, one where his wraiths still walk and he hears his old master’s song. He stretches himself to the very limits, to a small, pitiful little land where he can sense a flicker of himself crying for his touch. 

He sees it when the creature sleeps. His ring, his most beautiful creation, glistening gold and lit up like a flame, calling out to him. He sees it hanging from a silver chain around the tiny creature’s neck, and he comes to it like he did to all the others. He strides forward in his form of old—the one that could seduce anyone and anything to his whim. He wears it trim and tall, looking almost as an elf—this creature likes elves. It likes dwarves too, and Men, and sometimes it even dreams of _dragons_ , though its visions are never right. Frodo Baggins has never seen such wonders for himself. 

In his dreams, Mairon takes the little snippets of descriptions he’s learned from his uncle, and Mairon fans them into bold, colourful tales: Glaurung lives again and swoops over the green fields of the Shire, making Frodo’s clear eyes grow wide around the edges. The other Halflings conjured out of memory scatter like the wind, cowering in fear. But Frodo watches the sky in awe: utterly entranced.

It’s almost _too_ easy. Mairon stands behind the tiny creature and cocoons around him, purring in his ear of more wonders, gorgeous things just beyond the borders of his home. Just out of the protection of his friends—the pesky old Istari and aging Dúnedain. Frodo needn’t go far. Mairon’s messengers will come to him, dressed in striking black, stunning as the night. But Frodo _wants_ to go far, and Mairon encourages that too: tells him things are so much grander South, and no one in his quaint home can be trusted. The Istari shouldn’t be listened to. Frodo already feels the whisper of _want_ in his heart, and that’s the only thing worth heeding. Mairon whispers: _Forsake all others: come to me._

Frodo takes a step forward, one at a time, down his doddering hill, and the whole wide world’s stretched out below, just waiting to gobble him up.

_“Where are you going, Mr. Frodo?”_

Frodo turns. Mairon’s still there, but Frodo’s gaze pierces right through him, off along the cobbled path, where another hobbit’s wandering up. Plump and sullied with fresh earth, the other hobbit smiles. It catches in the sun: the whole dream flares like Mairon’s _fire_ , without all its searing pain. Frodo glows with _joy_.

Frodo breathes, _“Sam,”_ and drifts back, out into the other halfling’s outstretched arms, out of Mairon’s grip. Suddenly, the path is gone: the Shire’s enough again, and this is all Frodo cares for. The ring dissolves and tumbles down his chest like so much forgotten ash. It was so quick, so _easy_ , and it wounds Mairon’s pride for that—all his clever words and careful imagery, and all it takes is one lowly gardener to take all of that attention. The gardener hands Frodo a flower—a bright yellow blossom that used to grow in the fields of Valinor. That’s the only lingering remnant of Mairon’s influence, and it’s twisted into something delicate and sweet. Sam tucks it behind Frodo’s ear and kisses his cheek. 

Slowly, Mairon fades. It’s not his own will—he doesn’t _give up_ and would never withdraw. But his grip on Frodo’s mind is waning for the moment. He spirals back into his own agony, awake and formless. 

The hobbit’s heart is stronger than Mairon gave him credit for. But he’ll fall eventually, as they all do in the end.


End file.
